


Synthetic XIII: Kaleidoscope

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Daddy Issues, Flashbacks, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: Dad. oh, these boys... So much angst. and love. And maybe a teensy bit of fisting...





	

Synthetic XIII: Kaleidoscope  
Kitty Fisher

 

They walk into their room, Sam first, Dean closing the door behind them. Their father is sitting in the one upright chair, elbow resting on the table at his side, his eyes narrowed as he looks from one son to the other. There’s no sign of how long he’s been waiting, and he shows no impatience, only the same solidity, and direct scrutiny, that they’ve known all their lives.

“Boys.”

“So, you finally made it.” Sam’s tone could freeze alcohol. He tosses the bag he’s holding in a corner and shoves his hands in his pockets. There’s anger coming off him in waves. Controlled, focused, his outrage pumped up with ice-cold fury. Standing slightly behind him, Dean shifts, subtly balancing his weight, ready in case Sam decides actions speak louder than words. 

“Took me a while to get back, Sam.” Surprisingly, there’s no instant reaction to Sam’s aggression. John stays slumped in the chair, his face lined with tiredness, flexing his hands, both of which are bruised, their knuckles scraped raw. “Things got a little busy.”

“You know what? That really seems to happen way too often.” Hunching his shoulders, Sam tilts his head forward, nostrils flaring as he breathes out, hard. “But, hey, at least Dean’s not _dying_ this time!”

John looks past Sam, and Dean straightens as he’s assessed by a cool, steady stare. “You okay, Dean?”

He sees the exact moment John spots the collar. Shame tightens it around his neck, and he wishes that he’d found a way to get rid of it. Just done it, not messed about toying with the symbolism of the thing.

“Sure. I always heal fast.” Which sounds like he’s trying to play down what happened. And maybe he is. Except, everything the demon said to them is on repeat in Dean’s head, and he stares at his father, trying somehow to see the truth.

John nods, unreadable as ever. “What happened?”

Sam mutters an obscenity. “Your friend is what happened. Have you ever really thought about what giving someone to one of those fuckers might mean?”

“It was just for sex, Sam.” If anything, John sounds exasperated. “Which we both know your brother enjoys. Don’t we.”

“What? You think bringing up the fact that you fucked him will make us feel _better_? And get this straight, you and I can’t bond over you abusing him. Ever.” Sam’s hands are curled into fists. “You have no rights here. You don’t own him anymore. As for that little favor you asked? The _save my butt one last time, Dean_ , favor? Did you really think that a fuck was all you were setting him up for?” Sam takes a sharp breath. “Like hell. You really just didn’t care. And after everything I’ve learned about you? Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Now, wait a minute –”

“No. No more minutes, Dad. And I guess the last thing I should expect is any sort of acknowledgement, or an apology.”

“He apologized to me in the truck.” Dean drops the words into a silence that seethes with emotion. Then shrugs as Sam turns to stare at him. “Maybe not the best apology ever, sure. But it was there.”

Sam hesitates, his eyes raking over Dean’s face, pain stripping all pigment from them, leaving their hazel bleached to a flat gray. “Yeah, too little, too late.” Blinking, he takes a shuddering breath. “Dad, if I thought you knew everything…”

“Hey –” Dean reaches over, touches Sam’s arm. The muscles under his hand are wound tight. He strokes a thumb through cotton, then lets his hand drop away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t hate him?” Sam shakes his head, then looks back at where John’s sitting, watching them. “Dad, why did you do it?”

“What? Fuck him? You want the truth? First time, I was drunk and he came on to me.” There’s anger, wired under his calm. “I was drowning, losing it. Dean, well, Dean grounded me. Teaching him, training him – and you Sam, though in a different way – gave me something. Helped me deal with Mary’s death. With the demon. I couldn’t do it alone – I needed you both. The sex? Hell, it was a release, for both of us. You think I forced him?” He takes a deep breath and his wide shoulders shrug. “I didn’t. He was always obedient.”

“Jesus… Just because he obeyed you, doesn’t mean it was right - and it certainly doesn’t mean that he liked it!”

“I’m fighting a war, Sam. No prisoners. Dean had his part to play – and most of the time, he did it well. Which brings me to Father David. The whole parish is in uproar, with rumors of a black mass in the church and no sign of the father.” With a creak of wood, he leans back. “Guess you two boys wouldn’t know anything about that?”

“So that’s why you’re here. A useful priest disappears and suddenly you feel the need for a family reunion.” With a sneer pulling at his mouth, Sam nods at Dean. “Couldn’t you, for once, have thought of one of us first and not your stupid obsession?”

“Stupid?” Glowering, John leans forward. “Don’t ever say that in my presence again, Sam. You’re the one who bailed out. You’re the one who doesn’t care enough to help your family – you have no right to say those words to me. Ever.” He waits, sees the flicker of guilt on Sam’s face and only then goes on. “Like I told you, I was held up.” John shrugs – not without apology. But it’s as if the apology is layered by a kind of distancing. As if the only reality is the hunt, and everything else in the whole world is only a means to that end.

Dean sees it. And for the first time understands it. There’s a chill in his gut, spreading out, pouring into his blood. “You were meant to come for me. Guess that wasn’t going to happen.”

“Father David gave me a lead, I followed it – and ended up burning out a nest of vamps. That was more important than acting as a cross-town taxi service for you, Dean.” He looks at their faces. “So, things get a little too enthusiastic?”

Which makes Dean laugh. Out loud. The sound soft, breathlessly twisted. “And fuck you, Dad.”

“You heartless bastard.” Sam takes a half step forward, but stops when Dean rests a hand on his arm. “Guess that’s what comes of being best buddy to a demon.”

“He was a priest!”

“Yeah, so what. Father David had a little secret, Dad. One nasty, sulphur-scented secret, that even after all those years of hunting demons as if your fucking life depended on it, you missed.” Dean spits the words out. “Well, we didn’t. We saw what he was.”

John shakes his head once, then slowly stands, his anger, cold and brittle, filling the room. “What did you do to him?”

“Sent him back to Hell.”

This time, the shock is real, and John stands still, frowning, his eyes staring into the distance, seeing something only he can see. For a moment, Dean thinks his father understands, that he’s going to nod and say, _I never knew. You did the right thing…_ But words, like they so often do, blow that illusion to pieces.

“You killed him… Christ…” John’s eyes are wide. “Have you any idea how much I relied on him?”

“You relied on a _demon_. Got it?” Sam pauses, and when he goes on the anger in his voice is wrapped in something close to pleading. “And what we killed was a demon. No question. You think we’d make that kind of mistake? Come on. You’re the one who trained us, remember?”

“Sure, I trained you. But…”

The cold finally reaches Dean’s heart. “You knew.”

“What?” Sam turns, frowning. Their father just stands there.

“You knew he wasn’t human anymore. And you still let him have me. Fuck.”

“I needed him. I owed him. No war is clean.”

Dean shakes his head, fighting the horror that’s pounding through it. “How could you?”

“To win. I’ll do anything to survive and to rid this world of bastards like the ones who killed your mother and Sam’s girl.” He’s passionate, his face bright with fervor. “All he wanted was to fuck you. Something you’ve done a hundred times before, and yet even that was too much to ask of you. You get hurt a little –”

“A little? He raped and tortured Dean!”

“And for that you killed him?”

“No! We killed him because the motherfucker was a demon!” Sam pauses, controls the anger. “Okay, d’you really think he was helping you? Well, get this, he taunted us. Went on and on about how he’d been playing you for twenty years.” His voice cracks. “Jesus. You knowingly gave Dean to a demon.”

“Stop being a child. What d’you expect – fairness?”

“I expect you to care, you asshole!”

He lunges forward, but Dean grabs Sam’s arm, pulls him back so hard he ends up slamming into the door, held there by Dean until his eyes lose their heat. Dean nods, then steps away, turning to their father. 

“What am I then? A casualty of war?” Dean tugs his shirt open, lifts up his T-shirt to bare his torso, knowing that his body is darkly mottled, finger marks clear as prints, the lines of his ribs blurred by the still raised lumps of bruising, the scabs where his skin had broken. “Is this enough?” He drops the fabric, and grabs the leather collar, scraping his own neck as he tugs it forward. “Or this? It was his, Dad, he put it around my neck and led me around like a dog, all the while taunting me about how he’d screwed you over.”

For a moment there’s no reaction, their father staring at Dean, facing him, while Sam watches them both, slightly to the side. Then John reaches back, under his jacket and shirt, and - before either of them can move – steps forward, his Bowie knife at Dean’s throat.

Suddenly very still, Dean watches his father’s fingers, tight on the blade’s grip. He focuses, hardly hearing Sam whispering his name as, with one hand, John pulls the leather taut and slides the knife between collar and skin.

“Father David might have put this on, but somehow you two never found time to cut it off?”

Dean swallows as the edge closes on his throat, and he tilts his head back, hardly breathing as metal skims his skin, so sharp that it feels feather-light as a kiss. He swallows, risking his Adam’s apple.

“Why did you leave it on?”

Sam’s standing at Dean’s side, his hands clutching helplessly at the air. “I didn’t want to risk Dean’s skin – Dad, you’re cutting him!”

“I’m ridding him of this thing. Did you get off on seeing him in it, Sam?”

“Fuck you, Dad! Get a grip – the collar’s not important, it’s a piece of leather. Stop trying to deflect the argument.”

“From what? You two playing games?”

Both Sam and Dean start to speak, but Dean bites his lip as the knife catches against his skin. He lets Sam talk, Sam who watches every rasp of blade through hide as if it’s his own skin that depends on the skill of their father’s hand.

“There were no games in the church. You have to understand.”

“I understand that you’re both lost. Kids playing grown-up games. Thinking you’re safe with each other.” He saws at the leather, grunting with effort as the fine-honed edge of his blade has trouble with the thick band. “Fucking each other, for chrissakes, when you should be helping rid the world of all the filth. Helping in the war, not killing those who help. You damn fools, I’m ashamed to call you my sons.”

Dean feels warmth on his neck, trickling downwards. “Dad…”

“Shut up.” John changes angle, working intently. The leather finally parts, and John stands for a moment, holding the collar in his hand. Then he tosses it onto the floor, his eyes dragging over the blood on Dean’s skin.

“It wasn’t –”

The slap rocks his head, staggers him back. But before Dean can right himself, Sam’s there, pushing their father away, careless of the knife still in his hand, his face dark with bitter fury. “Enough. What is it, Dad? You think hitting us’ll make it all right? That beating us will prove you the better man? Well, I’ll fight you, if that’s what you want. We both will. But this is it. No more.”

The knife slides back into its hidden sheath. Dean looks into the war-weary face, and sees it, cold and hard, like some Old Testament judge. This is the father who ruled his childhood, the father who’d come into existence after their mother’s death. The man he’d knelt for, laid down for, and, in the darkness of night, prayed would love him unconditionally.

John makes an abrupt gesture of dismissal, and his mouth thins. “You’re such children.” There’s a mix of both scorn and pity in his voice. “You think I chose this life? Wanted always to have to do the right thing, measure right from wrong, be judge, jury and executioner? I didn’t want it, but it’s what I do. I’m sorry if you can’t deal with it, or see it for what it is.” He glances at Dean, and shrugs in apology. “I made mistakes. Dammit, if I could go back, well, I’d behave differently, find other ways to get what we needed. What I needed.” He looks away, wipes a hand over his mouth. “But I can’t change things, not now.” With that he shrugs and, weary as a man with the world resting on his shoulders, walks over to unlock the door. He peers out, squinting into the sunset.

“Dad, please…”

Looking back, he meets Dean’s eyes. His glance flicks to Sam, then fastens back on Dean. “Don’t get caught for Father David’s murder.”

And he walks away.

:::

Between them, they sink an almost full bottle of cheap tequila. It scarcely takes the edge off.

Sam paces the floor, back and forth, big cat in a small cage, and Dean sits on the bed, feet tangled in the comforter, wondering if memory flashes could be diagnosed as psychotic episodes.

Sam sees the now and the yet-to-be. All Dean sees is the past, stuttering through his brain, the images choking on each other, like words forced from a tongue-tied mouth.

There had been one man who liked to tie his tongue. To snap an alligator clip to its tip and chain that to another on his balls. Inelegant, unpretty and fucking painful. But then the guy had liked to jerk off while Dean, wired up to a tens machine, danced an involuntary tarantella. Pain as fantasy – and almost no marks on his skin afterwards. Memories, like an assault, ripping through his head. Sex with men in dark rooms, in secret, in the backs of cars, in alleyways. Holding his father, comforting him as he sobbed through yet another night. Almost killing a mark who looked too closely at Sam, riding home in the Impala, curled up on the back seat with his father talking about Marine Corp training. No pain, no gain. _Be a man_. Obey orders and deal with shit the way soldiers do.

Not that Dean ever got off on killing things.

There’s a night in his head, a memory of the shotgun in his hands, his father screaming at him to _shoot_. Finding out that some evil things look human. And they die like humans too. He’d thrown up for days, that first time. Spent hours on his knees in fucked-up Marine Corp penance, rain like needles lashing his face as he waited for his father to come back and tell him he was a good boy. Though some things he only ever got to imagine.

Learn the lesson. Evil dies. Even when it screams for mercy and its blood soaks into your skin, thick as warm syrup as it drips from your shaking hands.

He takes another hit, liquid fire hitting his throat while his eyes track his brother’s path over the floor. He should be wasted, but all he feels is cold. Every blink brings another flashing snapshot. Evil dressed in flannel. A man, rich as Croesus, stealing innocence. Evil wrapped in human skin. Images of bodies, flashes of skin flickering through his mind like some acidhead vision. Walking in a park, taking the long way home, scared – not that he can remember why he was scared, only the acid-taste of terror. Accusation in his father’s eyes. His mother splayed on the ceiling, burning. Sam in his arms, alive. So alive. And his.

Still his.

Dean doesn’t believe in a good God, or the good in man. He’s fucked, sucked, flirted and screamed for priests, judges, cops and lawyers. The only good he believes in stands by the bed and pours the last of the tequila, sharing it between them.

Yeah, Sam is good, through and through. Like a home-grown miracle. Not that Dean believes in those either.

“Here.” Sam chinks his glass against Dean’s. “To us.” He swallows the drink in one gulp, grimacing, more from the idea than the reality. Dean empties his glass. And shifts over as Sam finally settles down, sitting beside him on the bed, back against the headboard, legs straight out in front of him. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

He stares ahead, and his fingers pick at the seams of his jeans. “There was nothing else we could’ve said.”

Nodding, Dean agrees. The same way he agreed the last three times Sam made the same statement. He closes his eyes for a moment, then snaps them open. Memory like a terrorist. Guerrilla warfare of the mind.

 _His father’s eyes, dark with pain – accusation like a barb sunk into flesh._ “Is there anything left to drink?”

“Nope.” Sam’s voice shrugs.

Cars drive past. It rains. Dean wonders why it’s so hard to make the first move. Do you want me? Can I hold you? Will you hold me? How do you reach out for something when that something isn’t a fuck or a beating? 

There’s a shift of bedsprings and Sam leans forward, pulling his legs up and resting his head on his bent knees, curling both arms around his shins.

He looks desolate. Hopeless. 

In a moment of awareness, Dean knows he’s not the only one who can’t reach out. That he’s not the only one who’s lost his sense of self, of reality. Whatever was Dean Winchester is gone, but what was Sam Winchester is gone too. Perhaps the Good Sons were always a myth. Everything they were has blown away, like dust in a sandstorm. So, what’s left when everything’s gone? And the answer to that one is, _each other_.

Hesitantly, he reaches forward and, carefully, rests his hand on the back of Sam’s head. The curve of skull fits his hand, its warmth, under the thick silkiness of hair, curiously affecting. He holds still for a long time, simply cupping Sam’s head, feeling him breathe, feeling him being alive. With his fingers, he gives the bent head a gentle massage, then slides his hand down, feeling the ends of Sam’s shaggy hair tickle his palm, run past his fingers as he moves down, his hand on Sam’s long, strong back, the solidity of spine curving down, a shoulderblade, arched from Sam’s stretched forward pose, cotton shirt, old and washed out, rising up to bare the small of Sam’s back, the skin pale, dusted with golden hairs. Dean tucks his legs up and leans sideways, curling his arm around Sam’s ribs, resting his cheek on the curve of one shoulder.

He feels Sam sigh.

“What if we’re wrong?” Sam’s whisper is muffled.

“We aren’t.” 

“I’m sorry I went. I should have stayed.”

It takes Dean a moment to realize what Sam means. Then he’s horrified. “No! No, you shouldn’t.” So much death. Jess, burning like their mom. Dean rubs a hand down his own thigh, fingers digging into muscle as he presses his face more tightly to Sam’s shoulder. “If anything, you shouldn’t have come back – though I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t.”

“Me neither.”

Forgetting about the possibility of ambush, Dean closes his eyes and falls head first into memory.

It was all his fault. Sam leaving was his fault. Now it was the two of them, father and son, and the one son left had better be twice as good, twice as fast, and twice as loyal. Every word had felt like a holy truth. He’d believed it all. Wanted to be everything his father needed – trying so hard, taking on the obsession as his own. Hunting every night. Salt on his skin, flames lifting from burning graves. His father always planning, the country mapped like a game board. His own body mapped by discipline. Belief like a religion, with his father his God.

Well, maybe all gods are false.

Sam lifts his head, twisting his torso as Dean moves too, and then somehow they’re wrapped in each other’s arms, hands clutching at skin and clothing, their legs tangling together. “Dean…”

“Yeah. Come on.” The words mean nothing. He has Sam in his arms, and he holds on tight. There are a thousand things he could say, but the words spin and tumble incoherently in his head. The only ones that surface, the only ones that actually mean anything, are very simple. Dean presses his mouth close to Sam’s ear, his lips wrapped in the tangle of Sam’s hair, and he whispers: “I love you.”

He feels Sam nod, feels the tightness in his muscles, the slight catch in his breath. “Yeah, love you too. In every way, big brother.”

Neither of them moves. If anything, they hold on more tightly, anchored by each other. It’s like grief. They sit, holding on to flesh and blood, rocking slightly, mourning the children they were and the father they’ve lost. 

:::

At some point they slide down the bed and sleep, fully dressed apart from their boots, holding on to each other. It’s late when they stir, and Dean wakes to Sam sliding down the bed, his long fingers peeling back Dean’s fly, baring his cock and sucking it into his mouth.

Speared into wakefulness, Dean chokes on words, his throat clenching as Sam opens his own and swallows, head pushing forward until his nose is pressed to Dean’s skin. Staring down, his hands fluttering indecisively over Sam’s head, Dean groans in warning and comes, stomach rippling, sweat prickling on his skin.

Panting, he flops back. Wipes a hand over his face and blinks, almost in shock from the sudden shift from sleep to orgasm. Though he rouses as Sam strips him, pulling the pants from his legs and tugging his shirt away.

As soon as Dean is naked, Sam moves up to lie over him, grinning wildly, madness a flame twisting in the dark heart of his eyes. “Hey, guess you were ready.”

Dean nods. Thirty seconds? A minute, max? One look at Sam’s face and he’d been over the edge. “Sorry.”

“Oh, no – no apologies.” He leans down and kisses Dean, moaning softly as he tongue-fucks Dean’s mouth, his hips grinding down, cotton scraping on skin.

“Sam… come on, fuck me.” Dean pushes the words out in the gaps between the kisses.

“Yeah. Need to. But…” There are deep shivers ripping through Sam’s body, pain in among the arousal. Pain and loss, hunger for Dean. Hunger to know that Dean is his. “Dean, I’m so hard I’m hurting, but I don’t want to just fuck you.”

“Whatever.” Dean nods. Right now, after everything, he’d let Sam flay him. All he can be now is Sam’s, in any way. “Whatever you want – do it. Or I’ll do it for you. Anything…”

Leaning in, he bites the side of Dean’s neck, licks the bruise. “I know.” The words slide across Dean’s skin, leaving a wake of goosebumps. 

With his head still tucked into Dean’s shoulder, Sam unzips, wincing as he pulls his cock out and shoves his clothing down. Hooking his hands under Dean’s thighs, Sam pushes them up, getting his knees underneath him as Dean gets the idea, rocking back and lifting his legs. One gets pushed over Sam’s shoulder, so he’s split wide, ass open for Sam’s fingers to trace up and down his crack, pressing against his asshole until Dean groans, eager and hungry.

Sam shifts Dean’s weight, and reaches over to grab lube off the nightstand, flipping the cap and squirting cool, viscous gel straight onto hot skin. Lots of gel, thick and slick. Tossing the tube to one side he coats his fingers, sliding them back and forth until Dean’s shuddering, hands clawing at Sam’s shoulders, raking at cotton until he pulls it up enough and Sam ducks his head and slips out of it, immediately going back to his task while Dean throws the garment onto the floor.

The first finger makes him gasp, tension releasing in a wave of warmth that brings a flush to his face. The second brings the tension right back. Sam shoves them all the way in and twists, scissoring them inside Dean’s body until Dean lifts his ass, spine curling until he’s almost bent double, every cell of his body begging for more.

The third and fourth go in together. The stretch turning into a burn that rocks Dean’s head back, his mouth open, breath searing into his lungs.

“Look at me.”

Licking sweat from his lip, Dean obeys. Looking at his brother and seeing his own desperate hunger reflected back from Sam’s dilated pupils.

“You ever been fisted?” Dean shakes his head, heart pounding, his cock thick and slick, rubbing back against his belly. “Don’t close your eyes.” And Dean feels himself opened.

Sam has big hands.

Panting, the only sound Dean can make is a whimper. Which shifts up a pitch when Sam slowly eases his hand deeper, until Dean can feel the ridge of knuckles and the curl of long fingers deep in his ass.

Then Sam stops. With Dean stretched on what feels like the widest part of his fist. “Touch yourself. Jerk off for me.”

Which involves coordination. Thought. Motor control. None of which Sam has left him. Somehow Dean manages to get a hand around his cock. It takes a long moment before he’s capable of anything other than holding it, feeling the blood pumping through the thick shaft, stomach muscles like iron against his wrist. He starts to pump, unsteadily, gasping as Sam watches him for a while, his face set and intent, until he bends, and licks one of Dean’s nipples before biting it, teeth scraping hard over the ridge of flesh until Dean shudders, pumps harder on the length of his cock and jerks up, as if electrified, when Sam bites, teeth sinking in, tongue flicking like a snake’s, back and forth, until Dean’s spasming at each touch, sobbing as he comes, spunk shooting up through his fist, spattering up, so that when Sam slowly lifts his head, letting Dean’s nipple pull from his mouth, his face is wet, slick with spunk down one side. A drop is close to his mouth and he licks it up, smiling as if he’s drugged, eyelids dropped low over the heat of his eyes.

“Lick off the rest…”

He presents his face - hand still in Dean’s ass – bending down but not too close, making Dean lift his head in order to lick the thickness of his own semen from Sam’s skin, licking it like it’s candy, tongue swirling over the line of Sam’s jaw and the bristling tightness of stubbled skin, tasting the salt of sweat mixed with the thicker, meatier musk of come. His cock pulses. And he shivers when Sam kisses him, long and deep, his body covering him, his hand twisting slowly, thumb pulling free of the tight grip of Dean’s ass, the sensation so strong that Dean bucks underneath him, the leg that’s over Sam’s back pulling him closer, thigh muscles clenching.

The broad, thick head of Sam’s cock nudges Dean’s ass, slides up and pushes into constriction, into the tightness already clenching around Sam’s fingers.

If there’s oxygen in the room, Dean can’t find it. Sweat burns in his eyes and he’s quivering. Every particle of his body feeling the push of cock into his ass, of Sam’s fingers and cock, spreading him, owning him. All the way. 

Deep as he can go, Sam pauses. “I’m gonna come.” The words are muffled against Dean’s lips, breathy and slick with the slide of skin on skin. “Put your hands over your head.”

Dean unlatches his fingers from Sam’s skin, stretches his arms up, crosses the wrists and lays them on the pillow.

“Don’t hide.”

He doesn’t. Dean keeps his eyes open and lets Sam see the pain as his body is opened, taken, cock and fingers stretching him wide, the burn reaching through him, sparking sensation from every nerve, every synapse, every single part of his mind and body. Pain blurs everything. There’s color seeping through him, red and gold, pleasure like silver, and rippling through it all, the dark, black-centered green of Sam’s eyes, as Sam fucks, deep and hard, pushing himself, sweat dripping from his face as he stiffens, and comes, head snapping back, tendons like ropes in his neck, the skin flushed dark with blood, his mouth open in a wide, silent scream.

He falls forward as if pole-axed.

Gritting his teeth, Dean stops himself from crying out, and when Sam’s cock and fingers slowly slide free of his body, he rides the wave of pain, finally relaxing as his body readjusts.

Sam groans.

“Sam?”

“Yeah…”

“You alive?”

“No.”

“Shift.” Unlocking his hands, Dean pushes Sam, heaving him sideways so he flops onto the mattress and Dean lies back, wiping sweat from his face.

“You okay?” Slurred, the words fall from Sam’s lips.

“Yeah.”

“’m just gonna nap.”

“Oh no – we’ve got to get going. Come on. Remember? The whole getting out of Dodge thing?”

“Man…”

“Yeah. It sucks.” Dean shrugs.

Sam sighs, deeply. “Share a shower?”

“Sam, I’m not getting it up for at least another week, so get in there – and don’t forget to wash behind your ears.”

“Mm, imagine what’s there – you think maybe an ounce of spunk? Man, it went everywhere.” With that he shoots his brother a grin, then rolls off the bed, kicks off the pants that are still around his ankles and walks away in just his T-shirt. The view’s good. Dean sighs, then closes his eyes. Five more minutes, then he’ll get up and pack.

:::

They don’t own much. Packing doesn’t take too long, and Dean goes and pays their bill while Sam loads the Impala. He’s walking back, about to turn the corner back to the room, when pain slices into his brain. It’s enough to make him almost fall, but he grabs the wall and staggers, seeing…Sam. Which makes him run. Clumsy, almost tripping as he rounds the corner and lunges through the open door of their room.

Sam’s on his knees, both hands clutching his head. Falling at his side, Dean grabs his shoulders. And in the blinding roar of pain, they see their father, screaming.

Fin XIII


End file.
